High School Pushover No More: The Power of the Polo Shirt

A smirk flashed across my former classmate’s face as she walked in and saw me behind the cash register wearing my maroon cap and name tag. She whispered something to her equally tall and slender friend — a summer kid I recognized but didn’t know — then strode over and greeted me in a way she hadn’t since we were little: as if we were friends. Then she asked for a pack of cigarettes.

It was the summer before my senior year of high school. I’d worked as a dishwasher at a local tavern the year before, but this was my first on-the-books job: sweeping floors, selling lottery tickets and scooping ice cream at the convenience store that was also my rural hometown’s only gas station. A. and I had gone to kindergarten together. Though she had hopped around other schools in recent years, I knew she was underage, and she knew I knew. Standing there in her skimpy tank top, she was betting I wouldn’t cause a scene.

It was a pretty safe bet.

I’d always been a quiet kid, consistently described by both peers and teachers as “good” and “nice.” But all this really meant was that I followed directions well, rarely spoke my mind and almost never stood up for myself. Not that I was bullied or friendless, but my memories are full of my being too shy to raise my hand, too scared to take a chance.

I’d also ballooned from a normal-size child to borderline obese somewhere around the time my parents’ marriage fell apart, and though I’d been actively fighting that extra weight for years, much of it still clung to me. So at 17, I was not only painfully shy, but I also possessed the insecurities common to overweight girls in our culture. It was impossible for me to look at someone like A. without resenting the ease with which she moved through the world.

Now, as an adult, I recognize that it’s unlikely that A. was as comfortable in the world as I assumed she was. She must have been going through her own tough times as she skipped between towns and schools, and weathered her own parents’ divorce. But all I cared about then was that she was thin, gorgeous and — by my standards at the time — rich.

She didn’t need to work a summer job; her father owned a business with his name emblazoned across a giant sign. The nights I spent wrapping sandwiches in cellophane and mopping the bathroom floor, she was probably off partying at some moneyed kid’s second home, the kind of house that I had helped my dad paint during other summers.

It never occurred to me that maybe she smoked not to fill some cool-kid quota but because it provided her with the same solace I tried to find in food. No, I felt no empathy for this stunning girl standing across the counter with an equally privileged friend. Instead I felt the weight of my unflattering uniform. I felt their shared aura of superiority.

But while my maroon cap and name tag contributed to my feeling inferior that day, they also gave me authority: A. couldn’t reach the cigarettes unless I handed them to her.

Earlier that summer, my dad had come in for ice cream. As he ordered, I saw the hope in his eyes that he’d get extra, and I panicked: I’d learned about nepotism in school. Not wanting to abuse my ice-cream-giving power, I overcorrected and served my dad a pathetic portion that might belong in one of today’s artisanal shops but was entirely inappropriate for that time and place. I remember his disbelief as I handed him the cone.

The situation with A. was similar in that it hinged on my learning to balance my newfound professional authority — however meager — with my personal integrity. It was also different in that she was not a family member but my peer.

Rewind to the winter of second grade, when a group of older kids who usually ignored me asked me to go knock on the door of a girl in my class. This girl was a poor student with a troubled home life who frequently acted out at school. We were often paired for projects because I was “a good influence” and she liked me; she thought I was “nice.” The older kids had hatched a plan to pelt her with snowballs but knew she would not come outside if any of them asked.

I was to be the lure.

I knew it was wrong, but I was too shy to say no to this crowd and — I’ll confess — I didn’t want to be perceived as being allied with a pariah of such magnitude. So I did it. Twenty-five years later, I’m still ashamed.

I raise this memory as a totem: By the time A. asked for those cigarettes, I’d long since learned the shame of being a tool in another’s transgression.

In the end, it came down to this: I did not care if A. smoked, but I didn’t want to be used. I would have preferred to remove myself from the situation without taking part, but that wasn’t an option. Fortunately, I had the backing of my hat and name tag and matching polo shirt. Sure, this was a just a summer job, but even so, I was in my workplace. I had power here. This context allowed me to find the courage that so often eluded me in social settings.

In a sweet, dumb voice, I asked, “Can I see your ID?”

Uncertainty flashed across A.’s face, then dismay. She mumbled something about leaving her license in the car, then turned and scurried with her friend out of the store. Looking back, it all seems a little petty — perhaps I had been needlessly righteous. But while I regret the snowballs and the size of that ice cream scoop, I don’t regret this. As I stood there in my clearance-rack khakis watching A. leave, I felt the triumph of a pushover finally refusing to fall.

Alexandra Oliva is the author of the novel “The Last One” (Ballantine Books).

A version of this article appears in print on October 23, 2016, on Page BU7 of the New York edition with the headline: The Power of the Polo Shirt. Order Reprints|Today's Paper|Subscribe